Wizard !
by Chiara Cadrich
Summary: Selected adventures of Gandalf the Grey. Today : confronting the Ruling Stewards...
1. The lesson of human death

**With a heavy heart**

_A little story role-play fashion, which imagines the initiation of a wizard, freshly sent from Valinor... _

.oOo.

_Third Age 1107 - Ruins of Gilgalen1 fortress, at the northern border of Arthedain._

The cold wind stretched bitter clouds over the Bleakmoors. The dunadan and the wizard crept like shadows into the undergrowth around the old fortress.

-I don't like these ruins, whispered the Dunadan. The air no longer sounds with insects' flights. The birds have deserted them. Trees are curled up on their twisted roots.

The old man stared at his companion, looking preoccupied:

\- Your scouts had already warned us that some creatures had made their lair in these ruins. What more do you suspect, Celepharn2?

\- I don't know... This masonry disintegrates as if under the spell of a disease. The stones that come off, fall deafened at the bottom of the ravines, disturbing dark things. A silent warning oppresses my heart. Mithrandir, there reigns a malice that goes beyond the perversity of the orcs and the brutality of the trolls.

\- I too feel a malevolence on the lookout. My friend, I have to unmask the power lurking down deep this dungeon.

-I'll go with you!

\- Do not insist! I promised the king that the heir to his throne would take no reckless risks. Wait an hour! After that time, if I didn't come out, go and pick up your troops and then come back and storm the place!

A crumbling beam, the last remnant of the collapsed drawbridge, spanned the moat, which black, oily surface was sometimes bursting with foul-smelling bubbles. The wizard slipped cautiously, marking a pause in front of the lowered harrow. Then, seeing a postern, halfway up the wall on his left, he climbed there, helping himself with the collapsed hoardings and disappeared through the gaping opening.

.oOo.

It was there. The dungeon deeps were blocked by a heavy door, recently and hastily installed.

The faithful light, which trembled at the end of the wizard's staff, now seemed to suffocate under clouds of black spores rising from the mouldy walls. With a stroke of his sword, the wizard broke the chain that held the studded oak. The door opened slowly, seeming to yawn over the primordial void of the world.

In the heart of the darkness, rising from the abyss, two orbits opened. Imperious, two dull gleams looked at him, without blinking. In absolute silence, a wave of malevolence swept over the wizard, darted by the greedy and cruel prunes over the lonely mortal form, unwanted in this place.

So Gandalf had uncovered the abomination in its lair... He hesitated, stepping back and probing the intense look obsessed with hatred. His senses on the lookout felt nothing of what usually fed his empathy for beings in Middle-earth: there courage had turned into an instinct of destruction, desire had abolished in vengeful frustration, and pity had banished from this bitter presence with schrivelled humanity.

Gandalf doubted. This shadow of terror re-raged its resentment over the centuries, eager to satisfy its hunger by smashing all life to nothingness. Was this a ghoul, a spectre? The wizard had a mandate to oppose it, but would he have the strength? What spells had this hatred incarnated in shadow weaved within its lair? What dark powers had it acquired, while endlessly distilling the bile of its bitterness towards men?

Fear.

First fear, daughter of lies and mother of cowardice. Fear had been the master weapon of the Dark Lords before their banishment. Fear paralyzed the limbs and wasted the mind, silenced the leaders and enslaved the people.

But fear did not inhabit the wizard. The flame of courage illuminated his altruistic soul, sowed in the fibers of the human vessel, assigned to him to roam Middle-earth. Fear had not yet settled in his borrowed flesh, had not won his too sharp mind, even subject to this body of an old man.

But it would have been better for him!

A follower of Sauron since the dark ages, the damned soul that stood before him had studied the black arts under his rule. It was already too late when the wizard realized that he could no longer utter a sound.

A mephitic clay seemed to clog Gandalf's throat, which burned with an icy fire and prevented him from invoking Anor's flame. The more he tried to get rid of it, the more he felt this foul glue thicken.

Then the eyes went forward, enshrined under their dark hood, revelling with the silent howl of their powerless victim. Filthy things moved in the nooks and crannies, hairy and viscous, anticipating a feast.

A high and dark shape now dominated the wizard's curled figure. The suffocation that reached the Grey consumed his senses. Breaking his heart with an ice spear, a relentless force now enveloped his limbs, paralysing his will. His mortal body - one of an alert old man, tough as a strain and lively as a deer - pulsated with asphyxiated red blood, poisoned by the curse of his enemy. His sagacious mind, deprived of speech, was now panicking and howling his distress at the edge of the void, in the cage of this powerless body. The furious demand of life beat him deafly at the temples, wiping the wise prescriptions of the Valar and even the awareness of his true nature.

Slowly, the spectre revealed a knife from under the swathes of his black mantle. The dull, long blade was chiselled like an assemblage of deadly shards, ready to break into the wound and torment the victim to the point of madness.

.oOo.

Suddenly a torch cast brief tawny glimmers over the grey walls.

\- Mithrandir, I'm with you!

At the entrance to the underground room, under the vaults, the silhouette of Celepharn advanced, brandishing a tenuous hope.

The two cold flames sparkled for a moment under the spectre's hood, which turned to the new intruder.

Freed from its grip, the wizard collapsed, panting. Long, greedily, his burning throat inspired the stale air.

The spectre extended its arm, pointing its dagger in Celepharn's direction. A morbid cloak fell upon the Prince, as his torch suddenly went out in a cold breath. But the heir of Elendil, driven by a regal courage or a power inherited from Westerness, darted forward:

\- Arthedain! shouted the Prince, unsheathing his blade and charging his enemy.

Shortly, Gandalf glimpses the worst of his nightmares - Celepharn at mercy in the catacombs of the enemy, slowly perverted into a mummy, enslaved to guard his master's lair! The line of Isildur broken and the Northern Dunedain kingdoms hurled into anarchy!

Indeed, from all sides, waves of rats assailed the Prince, betrayed by his momentum, while, near the wizard on the ground, the spectre cast some curse.

\- No! This son of the West would not fall! His skeleton would not dry out, slave of a ghoul, abandoned in a filthy prison!

Gandalf grabbed his dimly lit staff, lying in the vermin, and stood up painfully.

Already the Prince was recoiling, suffocating under the teeming onslaught of the repulsive rodents.

Then Gandalf, pressed by the urgency, cast an injunction with an altered voice. Still on his knees, he struck the ground with his staff, invoking Elbereth.

Silhouettes of elves laughing under the stars ran stealthily on the vault. Bright twigs bloomed for a moment under the gaze of the gods, between the ogives, which suddenly collapsed.

In a great crash, blocks of masonry fell on the stained pavement of the crypt, burying the spectre under heavy rubble.

But even more terrible for it, were the clear light of the day thus unveiled, and the evocation of Elentari, piercing the heart of darkness and dispersing poisons and spells.

Freed from the abject clusters of rats, which were now disbanding, the Prince stepped forward.

The keystone had fallen on the spectre that had disappeared, abandoning the shreds of its long black frock.

But the collapse had obstructed the room; Celepharn, who was stranded, could not reach the old man, certainly buried under the piles of rubble.

The Prince called, to no avail. The ruins were frozen in the silence of death.

.oOo.

Suddenly the rumour of the world faded around Gandalf. The tumult of his soul subsided as the pain lowered and his convulsions ended. Freed from the furious and syncopated rhythm of breath, his mind regained its hold on itself. Freed from the tyrannical cadences of the flesh, his heart discarded doubt and returned to its source. Oddly enough, a few memories of Middle-earth passed before him, alternately insignificant or striking.

A radiant dawn haloed the light soul of Olorin3, who extended his wings to join and blend in. As his mind rose, the vanities of earthly existence, endearing and derisory incarnate manias, faded into the western light.

Yet Olorin could not take flight. Something strange, a murky regret held him at the bedside of Gandalf's remains. A taste of unfulfillness fed his reluctance to leave this body, still radiating with warmth, companion of joys and doubts. His dependence on Arda had grown inside him, the need had blossomed to achieve in this form, a thrilling vessel of his life in Middle-earth, to mark the memory of the world before being forgotten, without waiting for the glimmers of a too distant fate.

Human impressions had bathed him in a gentle drunkenness and tapped him with throbbing pains. Contradictory feelings awakened on earth, subtly intertwined in this human life that passed so fast. His senses had gradually displaced his earlier knowledge, marking his feelings with a carnal seal. The mediation of the flesh had freed him from many things he had believed essential, and chained to others, now visceral.

Gandalf had tasted the complicity of the glances on festive evenings at Fornost Erain, under the fragile glow of the stars. He had shared the hope and brotherhood at armed vigils, with modest and proud men. He had preached courage and benevolence at the homes of free peoples, feeling a curious affinity for their greatness and weakness.

No, he was not done with this life. His tender and bittersweet memories drew their beauty from the ephemeral - in the uncertain and persevering. Clinging to the wreck of his earthly body, Gandalf granted to himself, with a strange humanity, to renounce the splendours of the West, and to gain his rebirth in Middle-earth.

He plunged into pain.

.oOo.

The Prince had gathered his troops and searched the ruins, forced the catacombs of Gilgalen, and purified by fire the horrors he had uncovered there.

His knights had not found the wizard's body.

But despite all logic, Celepharn was not in mourning.

On the bright morning, the chirping of the larks and the glorious flowering that had returned to the lost ruins of Gilgalen, sang to him that the wizard had gotten away with it, after all.

The Prince was sure, the gruff old pilgrim would reappear on a stormy day to remind men that evil does not sleep, and to rekindle the flame of dignity and courage. His friend had a special hope for the line of Isildur. He would never abandon them.

And perhaps Gandalf, who had now experienced failure, fear and suffering, would be more forgiving, more persevering, by the grace of hope and love which, in humans, compensate for trials.

And no doubt he would also be a little more cautious...

.oOo.

**NOTES**

1 A fortified tower built at the end of the second age, on the edge of the fir forests, halfway between Forochel and Carn Dûm. The starry vault was so clear above the endless tundra, that the sage from Nùmenor had built his observatory there. What had he discovered, watching and gazing, his look lost in the stars? Was it his heir who haunted the catacombs of Gilgalen Fortress?

2 Celepharn was the son of Mallor, King of Arthedain. He ascended the throne of Arthedain in 1110. He is staged here, as the first captain leading a body of royal scouts, tasked with guarding the northern borders against the evil creatures that were beginning to multiply there. This is probably the most distant origin of the tradition of the rangers, guardians patrolling the sparse marches of the kingdom.

3 Olorin was Gandalf's name in Valinor.


	2. Never !

**Never**

_This short story is __a translation of my contribution to__ the February-March challenge __"Against each other - a __dire __relationship" __of FanFictions-dot-fr,__ evoking strong ties between two individuals. Happy, difficult or dramatic, this relationship will be evoked in one thousand and five hundred words or more, after a first imposed paragraph. __It will also begin and end with the same word__._

_.oOo._

« It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. » 1

Never before had he entered the sanctuary. The lightning bolts cast sudden shadows along the sandstone walls. His solemn silhouette glided between the marble colonnades. Thunder rolled from Mindolluin to the drenched avenues of the city below, but beneath these centuries-old vaults, the trophies rested and the statues watched in a careful peace.

The young man, all too unwillingly, stopped in front of a dark mirror, where danced some memories of stilted feasts. Only he knew its secrets — his tutors, coughing and pontificating old men, narrow-minded servants of traditions they no longer understood, only repeated obscure and chilly warnings. They never explored the sources, seldom searched the archives, nor did they prod the arcana of power…

Queen Berùthiel had summoned spirits through this mirror; she had weaved her spells and plots and sent her nine cats to torment her subjects, spying on their cabals at this hermetic window. Once her crimes punished and the Queen's exile pronounced, the King had erased her name from the annals, but the dark mirror had remained.

Alone, the young man, heir to the Stewards, had managed to defy its mystery and master its secrets. By proning the mirror of the cursed Queen, Denethor had been able to strengthen the power of his lineage, reinforce discipline, hunt down traitors...

The straight and sober image of the Steward's son was reflected for a moment, draped in the robes of Minas Tirith's clerics. Denethor turned his youthful face away, already tense and severe. Other secrets awaited him.

.oOo.

The heavens drowned the city under furious waterspouts. The winds roared, swirling to the assault of the Ecthelion tower. Braving the wrath of the night, Denethor climbed the last steps. Elendil's device warded the entrance, carved into the door's dark oak - seven stars circling a silver tree. Raising his lantern, the young man spoke with authority:

— « Tall ships and tall kings

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones

And one white tree » 2

The door opened with a dry slam. His lantern died, as if blown away by the winds that harassed the tower. Denethor shuddered. He remembered his bitterness at Ecthelion's blind rebuke, when he had asked his father the Steward for permission:

— "Probing the treasure of the tower? There is no discussion about that! My law forbids it! This peril must never be approached! Do you think I misjudge the scope of the prodigy hidden up there? These secrets are still too heavy for a whippersnapper unable to observe the slightest self-restraint, or even to obey his father!"

Mortified by Ecthelion's obscurantism and lack of trust, the young man had had to bow. But this time he was ready. Now he knew what the tower hid: a visionstone, a palantir, one of the elven wonders saved by their ancestors from the drowning of Numenor. At least he had found a report that mentioned the stones - several stones - as unrivalled sources of knowledge! And above all, he had unearthed handwritten notes which, patiently deciphered, revealed how the rightful owner could submit them to his will!

Denethor pushed the door. The darkness called him, as the setting of mystery and an omen of peril. But there was no tool of power in Middle-earth that will and hard work could not confer on such a gallant young man. He had to overcome his fears!

A nightlight wobbled, hanging from the keystone. Tortuous volutes danced in its tenuous light. Denethor followed them with his eyes, looking for their source.

Sitting quietly in a corner, an old man was watching him with his pipe on his lips.

Denethor startled and exclaimed:

— "What are you doing here?"

Between two grey puffs, still scrutinizing the newcomer, the old man answered softly:

— "I was waiting for you..."

The young man, still reeling, struggled to regain self-control. Angry at being so predictable, he long peered at the old man. An advisor to his father, constantly strolling here and there, who used to slip away and come back unexpectedly to command as in conquered country... He was known as Mithrandir, but in his heart Denethor called him "Stormcrow"...

The man persisted in staring at him, a curious glimmer a little anxious in his eyes. Denethor draped himself in an unsure authority and launched, straightening himself:

— "How did you get in?"

—"You forget your father entrusted me with his guard's passwords... and wizards are masters in tradition. Just like you, I can discern the secret logic, hidden under the rhymes of yesteryear…"

Denethor approached the marble table where the stone lay. A thick cloth covered it.

— "Veiling the palantir is enough to protect oneself from it", Gandalf whispered.

Denethor's proud eyebrow rose in an interrogative and annoyed bow. So the wizard knew a little more than he did about these elven prodigies...

With a hoarse breath, Gandalf slowly and carefully chose his words:

— "It is perilous, even for me, to approach the stone without letting the eye wander... because then something could grasp at you... something or someone... truly dangerous!"

Thus, the old fool himself had probed the palantir of Minas Tirith! Anger fired in Denethor's heart - by what right?

Whatever he had seen in the stone, the memory of the vision drew weary wrinkles on the wizard's face:

— "I beg you, Denethor, young captain and already Minas Tirith's loremaster, to give up confronting the palantir! At the very least, defer this difficult undertaking. You ignore the relentless malice that would confront you..."

— "Flee the fight! exclaimed the young man, full of contempt for this pusillanimous compassion. Is that not what we've been doing for decades, without ever challenging the growing threat?"

An unyielding faith vibrated in the young man's voice:

— "What a folly to despise such an instrument of power! It was demised to us by our fathers! Be aware that for the appointed elite, using the stone is not a matter of power, but of duty! The Ruling Steward's house, legatee of Gondor's majesty, will hold in check the shadow that is rising in the east! I am only looking for a way to protect my people, and I shall keep my word!"

Leaning on his staff, Gandalf got up and stood between the palantir and the young man. His long face betrayed great weariness, but he seemed to grow as he approached Denethor:

— "That is a promise worthy of a gallant lord of men! Yet beware! This oath binds you now! Just as binding as your promise of obedience to your father the Ruling Steward!"

Gandalf watched the young man walk away, shuddering with indignation. The wizard sat down, drawing on his pipe with a dubious air. He had delayed the inevitable, but at what cost? He had failed to win the sympathy of Gondor's heir, furthermore he had lost an ally in the struggles to come.

On the doorstep, furious Denethor turned back, visibly making a considerable effort to recover the majestic bearing befitting the landlord. Being held in check by that old jack-of-all-trade! After only a few moments, all traces of anger vanished from his face and his features hardened into a regal mask, under which beat an unrelenting determination. The sentence fell:

— "Mithrandir! You win for this time! But one day I shall be the Ruling Steward of this kingdom! And then my views will be law! For all of you, you included! I will no longer allow anyone to usurp the authority of my lineage! Never!"

.oOo.

__Many years later____...__

A spring breeze flowed between the pinnacles of stark and valiant Minas Tirith.

Sitting next to a marble pedestal, Steward Denethor laid his eagle stare at his boys:

— "Who will risk first ?

The sturdiest of the two teenagers took a step forward, clenching his fist on his chest:

— "Me! That's the elder's duty!"

Denethor smiled in spite of himself, proud of this fiery spirit - quite himself at the same age!

Then the youngest son stepped forward, bowing respectfully:

— "What exactly is the challenge, Father?"

The Steward's smile faded.

— "Courage and will!" he said coldly.

Faramir approached the palantir, covered with dark silk:

— "… Mithrandir told me about the secrets of the High Tower and warned me against their seductions..."

— "Who is this City's Loremaster?" Denethor roared, interrupting his younger son. "I shall not admit my son being the pupil of some illusionist! What does Mithrandir know about our need and the treasures of Nùmenor? And what about obeying the rightful lord of Minas Tirith?"

Boromir intervened, trying to calm his father's ire:

— "Faramir is naturally cautious, Father, that's all! But with your teaching, he and I can defeat the stone!" he exclaimed, drawing his sword.

Denethor took a deep breath, holding his elder son's arm:

— "The stone must be fought alone, my son! You have a lot to learn, but time is not ripe yet...

The Steward turned away from his boys:

— "Dismiss, both of you! Now I know what I need to know!"

Denethor glanced at the covered stone:

— "Boromir is not ready yet! As for Faramir, he won't be! Never!

.oOo.

NOTES

1- Paul Clifford, Edward Bulwer-Lytton

2- The Lors of the Rings- Book III – Chapter Eleven


End file.
